


And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Conversation, M/M, UST, but Jim is pretty guarded, some introspection, there's softer stuff there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 12:38:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9235583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: Jim and Oswald and a little respite.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is set at an undefined point during season one, after Oswald has the club and is open enemies with Maroni.

Jim ploughs on through the woods, grim-faced. It is frigidly cold, and the rain whipping into his face would have been painful if his face hadn’t already been numb. His wool coat is soaked through and useless now, made for city living, and not insane treks through the woods in the dead of winter.

He glances sideways to see how Cobblepot is doing. He had been surprised by him so far: in fact, he would go so far as to say impressed. 

It wasn’t that he hadn’t expected him to agree to help him find him the spot in the woods in the outskirts of Gotham where Maroni apparently liked to leave bodies – after all, Oswald hated Maroni. 

Jim knew, too, though it made his skin prickle with embarrassment, that Oswald would agree eagerly to virtually anything that meant spending time in his company.

All that being said, though, he had still expected him to complain bitterly about the conditions. He could at least draw on self-discipline he had learned in the army to push him through this, but Oswald – with his silk vests, and champagne, and taste for decadence – he didn’t think he would have it in him to manage this at all, let alone without complaining, and Jim had been certain he would wind up half-dragging him the whole way. 

Instead, he had done his damnedest to actually keep pace with Jim. Jim, after his initial surprise at this, had reined back his pace a little, just a little, so this was possible for him. He had learned quickly from their dealings that Oswald’s sense of pride was touchy and irritable, and so had kept this subtle – so he didn’t think he was patronising him. 

Besides that, he had been genuinely impressed by his tenacity. 

The crowning surprise, though, had been his silence, and the determined jut of his chin. Jim had expected whining, complaining, shrill and colourful cursing. But no, Cobblepot just kept moving forward, apparently possessed of a reserve of toughness and resilience that Jim would never have guessed at, occasionally barking a direction, or pulling on his sleeve to guide him – a determined set to his pale, pinched face.

This last half-mile or so, though, Oswald’s gait had become noticeably more exaggerated, lurching badly. Jim kept half an eye on him, suspecting that they would have to stop for a breather soon. They were starting to come across boggy patches of standing water, uncomfortable enough to wade through, and treacherous enough to break an ankle. Jim had wordlessly extended an arm to him for support. Both their shoes were ruined anyway – they were ankle deep in murky water - but Oswald looked like he might easily pitch forward and land face-first. 

A look at Oswald’s face when Jim had extended his arm had shown him grateful eyes but tightened lips – thankful for the gesture but resentful that he needed it. He had taken it anyway, though, and Jim had deliberately glanced away as he quickly lifted his elbow over Oswald’s forearm before sliding it back down again, trapping Oswald’s arm between his own arm and body, anchoring him more securely to his side.

“Is it much further?” Jim asked, raising his voice over the wind.

“About 20 minutes away?” said Oswald, a little dubiously. “We’re headed in the right direction, though.”

Jim’s eyes scanned the area ahead of him, seeing an odd shape in the distance, blurred-looking through all the rain.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing his chin towards it.

“Some old cabin” said Oswald. “I remember it being on the way, though – so at least we know we’re not lost”

“We’ll stop for a couple of minutes. I don’t think there’ll be anyone at the site when we get there – but if there is, I don’t want to find them well-rested when we’re exhausted.”

Oswald looked at him sharply, suspicious of charity. 

“I can keep going” he bit out, tone obstinate.

“I _know”_ said Jim. “Like I said, I don’t want to risk running into a crowd of Maroni’s men like this. Tactical disadvantage”

He begins to move them both towards the hut. Oswald doesn’t resist.

**

Jim ended up putting his shoulder to the door when they got there. They both stumbled inside, jamming the door closed behind them, grateful for the temporary respite. Jim trailed his flashlight round the room. It was thick with dust, with a rusted pile of metal in the corner that looked like it had been a still, once upon a time.

“Moonshine” said Jim.

“I have something better” said Oswald, his tone sly. Jim turned to see him take a hipflask from his inside pocket, a curving grin on his face.  
“I thought it wise to come prepared.” 

He offered it to Jim, eyebrows raised. After a moment’s hesitation, Jim reached out and took a belt. It was scotch, good scotch, and it burned fantastically as it trickled down his throat. Jim licked his cold lips, and passed it back to Oswald.

“Thanks.”

Oswald’s smile widened in response, before taking a swig himself. He let out a satisfied hum as the warmth hit him, his eyes shut. Jim took the opportunity to look him over quickly. Soaked to the skin, and so pale he was almost grey. His hair was still making a valiant attempt to stay upright, and Jim wondered – not for the first time – what the hell he _did_ to it. His shoes squelched when he shifted weight awkwardly, favouring his good leg.

Jim wonders if he sat down whether Oswald would simply follow suit. Lowering himself to the floor, back to the wall, he busied himself with unlacing his shoes and pouring water out of them - grimacing as he slid his foot back in to the shoe. He kept his eyes on his task until he heard Oswald begin to do as he had done, and then allowed himself to look up. Jim watched him wince as he carefully arranged his leg in front of him, rubbing the crook of his knee - and tactless like always (Barbara had aimed an elbow at his side at more than one fancy party), the question pushed its way out of him, despite his attempts to be discreet.

“Is your leg painful?”

Oswald blinks, like he was surprised to be asked, and Jim’s conscience stings.

“Well… it hurts anyway. Something like this is just _difficult._ The muscles spasm, and if it gets too bad I can’t continue – even if I want to.” He shrugged, and eyed his knee despondently. 

“Do you think you’ll be able to manage the rest of this?”

Oswald leaned forward, eyes wide and earnest. “Jim – I promise I will not let you down.”

Jim cut in impatiently, “That’s _not_ why I….” He stopped. It _should_ have been what he meant. Straightforward worry that they might not be able to get the job done. Not vague, troubling worry over whether Oswald Cobblepot’s leg hurt him. Something that scratched at the back of his mind more frequently than it should, anyway, with the rest of the things he tries not to think about.

Oswald was continuing blithely on, anyway, on one of his favourite topics.

“Anyway, you underestimate _quite_ how much I despise Don Maroni.”

Jim frowned and tilted his head, his attention caught. “Why? Why so much more than Falcone? They’re both criminals, both cut from the same cloth…”

Oswald shook his head sharply. “ _No._ It’s not that simple. Maroni is a blunt instrument. He uses brute force, and tends to think of short-term advantage. He lacks vision, scope.” Oswald’s tone was contemptuous. “However, Falcone plays a longer game. He has a strategy. He doesn’t _always_ resort to force, and he made all the right connections with legitimate authorities.” 

He waved a warning finger at Jim. “That’s not to suggest at all that Falcone is less brutal. Not for a moment. Don’t be deceived by that fatherly manner of his – that why he uses it.”

Jim thought, uncomfortably, that Falcone _had_ used that manner on him in their discussions – gone further, in fact, bringing up Jim’s dead father. He frowned. 

“He’s used it on you?” 

Jim looks up to see Oswald watching him keenly. 

“Don’t feel duped, if he has. It’s effective.”

“Did he use it on you?” asked Jim, surprised to realise that he was curious.

Oswald raised his eyebrows at Jim’s uncharacteristic interest. He shrugged.

“Initially. It’s there anyway – in the mob. Godfathers. Family. It’s part of the language. Still, he knows my father died when I was young, and tried to use that – hoping to make sure of my loyalty. Fish does it, too.”

“It didn’t work, though, with you?”

Oswald smiles. “I’m not the most trusting of men, Jim.”

Jim wasn’t sure that he liked the insinuation that _he_ was somehow naïve, overly trusting. He rebutted.

“You trusted me – when you came back to Gotham. And then to verify your story with Maroni.”

A slow, genuine smile crept over Oswald’s face.

 _“Jim”_ , he said, his eyes soft as they regarded him, “you are the _only_ exception.”

Jim isn’t sure how to respond to that, aside from flushing from the neck up. Luckily for him, Oswald offers him the hipflask again, breaking the tension. Jim takes another pull, and watches as he settles back and crosses his ankles, making himself comfortable to watch Jim drink.

Jim lets his eyes slide to the safety of the corner of the room.

“When do you want to set off again?”

Jim swallowed the whiskey, enjoying the burn, and handed the flask back to Oswald.

“Soon. Five, ten minutes? Harvey said he would call us if he made it there first with back-up.”

Oswald looks rueful. “I hope I’m not slowing you down too much. I imagine you’ll find this no strain at all – all your military training.” Oswald shrugs. “I’d not have made much of a soldier.”

Jim considered him for a moment before shaking his head. “I wouldn’t say that. You don’t complain. Your CO would be pleased. Whiners lower everyone’s morale”

Cobblepot’s face lights up at this, and Jim blinks - surprised at the effect of a few words. _Is that really all it takes?_ He wonders. _A little honest praise?_ He allows himself to think for a moment what Oswald Cobblepot might have made of himself someplace different. Better. A little kinder. If _he_ could be a little kinder to him now, could he make a difference? Even a little? He’d like to think so. Wouldn’t have become a cop if he didn’t think so.

“Do you miss it?” Cobblepot asks. “The army, I mean. I…” He smiles foolishly, and makes an awkward, twisting little gesture with his hands. It’s a genuine attempt at conversation, Jim realises, and God knows that Cobblepot can’t have many of those – not honest ones, anyway. Talking to the likes of Maroni and Falcone was like walking across a minefield, and his mother…. well. Cobblepot clearly loved her, but she struck Jim as… difficult. Not someone you could talk to, not really talk, anyway. Someone to be humoured. 

Jim’s not exactly a conversationalist himself, which had led to more of Barbara’s strategic elbows at parties, but he can try. Not like anyone’s watching, here. No pointy elbows. No raised eyebrows, and Cobblepot…. well, he’s likely to like anything Jim says, anyway. He can’t quite decide whether that puts him at ease or not. 

He clears his throat.

‘It’s…. it’s good to be part of something bigger than you. To know someone’s always got your back, that you stand for the same things.’ 

Cobblepot looks thoughtful.

I don’t think I’ve ever…’ He strokes his thumb across his lip, considering. ‘I’m part of the city, but…. never anything else, I don’t think...’

Jim interrupts. ‘Is that why you came back?’ 

Cobblepot doesn’t seem to mind the interruption, his face as relaxed as Jim’s ever seen it.

‘I don’t belong anywhere else.’

Jim’s eyes flick to his injured leg. Mooney’s work, he guessed. Or Falcone’s, maybe. God knows Cobblepot had painted himself into a corner by the time Jim arrived in town. Could easily have wound up cold and dead in the water by someone else’s hand, if not his.

Oswald’s eyes have followed his, and his fingers brush absently over his kneecap. 

Jim’s eyes skitter away, and he clears his throat. ‘Sorry – I shouldn’t have…’

Oswald glides past his apology without acknowledging it – proof of his earlier assertion: Jim is to be trusted. Jim is worthy of confidences.

‘This is Fish’s handiwork’ 

Jim feels the corners of his mouth tighten. Harvey likes her well enough, but Jim doesn’t trust her an inch - feels an almost irrational antipathy towards her.

‘She doubted my loyalty, confronted me…. she _beat_ me, Jim, cracked my kneecap, and then worked on the crook of my knee and my spine when I was face down on the floor.’

Oswald’s eyes are faraway, lost back in that moment. Something in Jim smarts.

‘You could have started somewhere new. A different life.’

Oswald’s eyes come back to the room and fasten on him.

‘I told you once before, Jim: Gotham is my home’. 

He stares at him and then tilts his head, eyes shrewd. Jim doesn’t know what Cobblepot sees on his face, but he slides towards him suddenly, darting and quick, gripping Jim’s knee tightly with a thin hand.

‘But I do appreciate what you tried to do, you know. _Never_ think that I don’t. Not just sparing me, but offering me something new. Clean.’

Jim keeps very still and just looks back at him, eyes steady. Cobblepot’s own eyes soften. He smiles self-deprecatingly, and gives a little shrug.

‘I just wanted you to know.’

He returns to the wall opposite and rests his head against it, relaxed, offering Jim a crooked smile.

‘Besides. What would you do without me?’

Jim’s wondered exactly that before, in fact. He’s fallen into the habit, during his sleepless nights, of playing over his time in the city, morose and half-drunk, picking at scabs, sullenly looking for the moments when things went bad for him, and thinking about how they could have gone differently – given him the life he should have had: relationship intact, hands clean, career gleaming, his father’s memory undisturbed.

Removing Cobblepot and his endless complications from the equation had seemed like a no-brainer. So Jim had lain in the dark one night and neatly excised him from existence and played the days through again with him gone, expecting a cure to all his ills, and a profound sense of relief.

That his mind had stumbled over every silence, every absence, like missing a step on the stairs; and that it had felt not only like a loss, but the loss of something that was - God help him - peculiarly _his_ – that had been something that had taken several more large whiskies to comfortably blur, and allow him to drop off.

He’d probably have forgotten about it, or done his level best to, until he’d gone to see him a couple of days later on business, and found himself relieved to hear his voice greet him – for all that he’d winced at his enthusiasm, and finished up the visit by brusquely telling him he should watch his step.

He aims a glare at Cobblepot. It’s supposed to be disapproving, but given that Oswald’s smile only gets wider and more crooked, Jim suspects it looks defeated.

They rest a few minutes longer in a surprisingly easy silence, until the wind shifts direction a little and starts to rattle at the windows, reminding Jim that they’ve got a job to do. He stands, and glances over at Cobblepot to see that he’s come to the same conclusion and is already watching him. There's a light smile on his face that looks a little like regret to Jim. 

He swallows the odd urge to apologise, and instead reaches down to grab Cobblepot’s hand, and help pull him to his feet. He deliberately makes the movement a little too rough to be seen as chivalrous, but Cobblepot doesn’t know the difference, and thanks him with a shivery little intake of breath - even as Jim is dropping his hand and turning away, heading to the door.

They step out into the night. If Jim nudges Cobblepot’s arm under his again, anchoring him to his side, then it’s just to make sure he doesn’t stumble, slow them down. If Cobblepot presses closer to Jim’s side, then it’s just for warmth, and extra balance against the wind.

That’s all.

That’s all.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, then thank-you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> The title is from Robert Frost's, 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening'
> 
> "The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
> But I have promises to keep,   
> And miles to go before I sleep,   
> And miles to go before I sleep."
> 
> As ever, I'm happy to chat in the comments, and appreciate any feedback :)


End file.
